


hide on the promenade

by diogxnes



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Good Parent Jim "Chief" Hopper, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diogxnes/pseuds/diogxnes
Summary: “I don’t need your help,” snaps Steve. It comes out more harshly than he means it to, but he’s pretty sure the effect is ruined by his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. He swallows hard, humiliated to realize that his eyes are beginning to fill with tears. He won’t let himself cry. He won’t. He’s already embarrassed himself enough tonight without also breaking down completely in front of the chief of police.Hopper doesn’t seem angry at the retort. If anything, his expression gets even softer. “Steve,” he says quietly. “Please just come inside.”
Relationships: Steve Harrington & Jim "Chief" Hopper
Comments: 65
Kudos: 453





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me? writing another fic about hopper trying to parent steve? you bet
> 
> in addition to the tags, cw for references to verbally abusive parents and minor homophobic language
> 
> title from the song "every day is like sunday" by morrissey

Steve doesn’t really remember driving here. The last thing he actually processed was slamming the front door shut behind him, muffling his father’s shouts as he ran to his car. He doesn’t remember getting into the car, either, doesn’t remember deciding where to go. He can’t at all picture the route he took to get here.

But he’s here now, pulled off the road into a little clearing that he’d still think was the middle of nowhere if it weren’t for the kids demanding rides out here at least once a week for the past six months. His breathing hasn’t really slowed, and his entire body is still trembling, but he’s at least aware enough to know where he is. He’s also aware enough to realize that he really, really shouldn’t be driving right now.

He shuts off the car and then returns both hands to the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. He squeezes his eyes shut, then quickly opens them again when he realizes that the darkness just makes his panic worse. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep after practice. He’d been meaning to _study,_ actually, had had his government textbook open on his lap and everything—but he’d felt so tired ever since he woke up that morning. He hadn’t slept well the night before. He’d woken with a pounding headache and a vague sense that something was just _off_ and it had only gotten worse as the day progressed. And at some point, reading the same sentence over and over again without an comprehension, he’d finally just crashed.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever screamed like that before. If he has, his parents must be heavy sleepers. But at barely seven o’clock, no one had been sleeping.

 _“Fuck._ ” He tightens his grip on the wheel to the point that it’s painful, or at least he thinks it would be if he was able to register anything other than the ache in his head and the crushing pressure on his chest. His breathing is only getting faster. Dimly, he wonders if he might pass out like this, hyperventilating in the driver’s seat of his car. He wouldn’t mind passing out. It sounds kind of nice, actually. He presses his forehead to the wheel.

The sound of another car’s wheels grinding through the sticks and leaves in the clearing startles him into looking up, his heart jumping into his throat with renewed panic. Then he sees it in his rearview mirror. It’s Hopper’s truck, pulling up behind him.

Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that if Hopper’s truck wasn’t already here, then there was a good chance Hopper would get home at some point and catch him like this. Hopper hasn’t even crossed his mind, really, even though Steve’s well aware that he’s parked outside his cabin. But now that Hopper is here—now that he’s putting the truck in park, _fuck,_ and getting out, and he’s definitely realized by now that it’s Steve even if he didn’t recognize the car at first—his panic changes. Some part of him feels just a little bit calmer. Usually, when Hopper shows up, that’s when things start to get fixed. But the larger share of his panic is growing, evolving into something different, so that by the time Hopper raps his knuckles lightly on Steve’s window he’s completely tense, unable to move even if he wanted to, hardly able to hear above the inexplicable roaring in his ears.

“Harrington?” Hopper is frowning at him. “What’s going on?”

Steve doesn’t answer. He can’t. He definitely isn’t capable of making a sound loud enough for Hopper to hear through the window, and even if he was, what would he say? Nothing’s going on. That’s the whole fucking problem.

“Steve?” Hopper knocks on the window again. “I’m gonna open the door, okay, kid?”

Fuck no, that’s not okay. He’s trapped enough as it is, caught by Hopper and unable to pull himself together enough to drive away. If Hopper opens the door, if he’s able to get to him, and Steve can’t get out—belatedly, it occurs to him that he could just lock the door. But by the time he’s processed that thought, Hopper’s already pulling it open. Steve jerks away from him.

“Whoah, hey, hey hey hey. Steve, it’s okay.”

Steve’s breathing is picking up again. Hopper isn’t going to hurt him. He _knows_ that Hopper isn’t going to hurt him. Why would he have come here if he didn’t know that? But he’s too close, hunched over and leaning into the car a bit, _way too close_ and Steve can’t fucking _breathe—_

“Shit,” he hears Hopper mutter. He backs up a little. “Steve—”

“Leave me alone,” Steve manages to gasp out. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I—”

“You’re not fine.”

“I—”

“Steve.”

Hopper is crouching now, bracing himself against Steve’s car with one hand. He holds the other out, open and nearby but not quite touching, as if to prove to Steve that he has nothing to hide. It helps a bit, for some reason, and Steve is just coherent enough to register that that’s ridiculous. He wasn’t really afraid that Hopper was holding a weapon, nothing like that. It’s more just—it’s the _fact_ of him. He’s too big, too imposing, too gruff, and Steve doesn’t exactly have a good track record of grown men reacting well to his freak-outs.

_What’s turned you into such a pussy, huh?_

Hopper breathes out a long sigh when he realizes that Steve is no longer actively flinching away. His voice is more urgent when he speaks again. “Listen, kid, I need you to tell me if something happened. If there’s something I need to know about—”

Hopper thinks he’s freaked out about some kind of monster shit, Steve realizes. He _is,_ sort of, but not in the way Hopper thinks. It isn’t _new_ monster shit. “No, not—it’s nothing like that—I just…” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. His voice is shaking so badly that it’s a miracle he’s managing to form words at all.

“Okay,” says Hopper after a sigh of relief. “Let’s just get inside, okay?”

Inside? Steve’s already in the car. Then he remembers that they’re just right outside Hopper’s cabin. That Hopper just got home, and probably has plans for the evening that don’t involve standing out in the cold trying to talk Steve down from a panic attack. That El is probably inside waiting for him and yeah, fuck, there’s no way Steve is going into that house and letting one of the kids see him like this. He thinks he manages to shake his head.

Hopper huffs and scrubs a hand over his beard. For the first time he sounds a little bit impatient when he says, “We can’t stay out here all night.”

Steve barely manages to speak around the tightness in his chest. “You go in, then.”

“What, so you can drive off the minute I shut the door? Not a chance. Look,” he continues, his voice softening a bit. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve gotta work with me here, kid. I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” snaps Steve. It comes out more harshly than he means it to, but he’s pretty sure the effect is ruined by his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. He swallows hard, humiliated to realize that his eyes are beginning to fill with tears. He won’t let himself cry. He won’t _._ He’s already embarrassed himself enough tonight without also breaking down completely in front of the chief of police.

Hopper doesn’t seem angry at the retort. If anything, his expression gets even softer. “Steve,” he says quietly. “Please just come inside.”

Steve shakes his head again. “Don’t want El to see me like this,” he whispers, and then sniffles pathetically. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes as if that’ll prevent Hopper from realizing that he’s crying.

“El’s not home,” says Hopper. “I just dropped her off at Max’s for the night.”

“Oh.” It’s a relief, sort of, but it also means that Steve doesn’t have an excuse anymore. “I—I’m okay. Really. I was just—I—I’ll just go home.”

Hopper easily blocks him from shutting the door. “You’re not going home, Harrington. Get out of the damn car or I’ll arrest you for reckless driving.”

And for some reason it’s this—the dropping of all gentle pretense, the return of Hopper’s usual gruffness—that breaks his resolve. He lets out a long, shuddering breath and feels himself nod. Hopper nods back at him, then moves out of the way so that Steve can get out.

His legs feel like rubber, kind of like they did right after Jonathan set the Demogorgon on fire and he had to lean back against the wall to keep from collapsing. He does the same now, holding onto the side of the car for a long few seconds to try and steady himself.

“You good?” asks Hopper.

Steve nods, but it’s another few seconds before he can make himself move. Hopper is watching him carefully, like he might pass out at any moment, which Steve supposes is fair. He’s no longer hyperventilating, at least, but he feels dizzy and disoriented and shaky and his head hurts worse now than it has all day. Still, Hopper’s close attention is a little unnerving.

Hopper doesn’t touch him the whole way to the cabin, but Steve is very aware of his hand held out, hovering just behind Steve’s back, ready to catch him if he stumbles. For some reason the gesture, oddly paternal for a man with so many rough edges as Hopper, makes the lump in his throat grow larger.

He’s out of breath again by the time they reach the cabin, and his legs feel so weak that he’s pretty sure he would’ve ended up having to lean on Hopper if the walk had been any longer. He just wants to lie down, really, and sleep for about a thousand years. His short nap this afternoon certainly hadn’t left him well-rested.

It’s strange to see the cabin so dark and silent. He hasn’t spent much time here—usually he just drops Dustin and the others off without getting out of the car himself—but the few times he has been inside, the little kitchen and living room have been bursting with noise and life, the kids always greeting El as if it’s been months since they last met. Now the only sounds are his own labored breathing and Hopper’s footsteps as he crosses the room to turn on a lamp.

Now that he’s here, he feels a little silly. He’d been embarrassed already, but only now does it fully sink in how much he was overreacting. God, it was just a nightmare. Just a stupid nightmare, and he’s had about a million of those, and then his dad yelling at him, and that’s nothing new either, but for some reason—

“You can sit down,” Hopper says, and Steve realizes he’s still just standing by the door. With jerky, unsteady movements he goes to the couch and sinks slowly onto the cushions. Hopper nods at him and then disappears to the kitchen. He hears the tap running, and then a moment later, Hopper is back and holding a glass of water out to him.

Steve takes it. “Thanks,” he mutters.

He sips it in silence, keenly aware of how awkward this is. Hopper left again after handing over the glass, and now Steve can hear him puttering around in the kitchen, washing dishes and putting them away. If he wasn’t still so dizzy and if his head didn’t hurt so fucking much, he probably would have found it funny, the idea of the chief doing domestic household tasks. Instead, he just feels tense and on edge, gripping the water glass tightly, staring straight ahead at the dark TV screen. He’s not stupid. He knows that Hopper is deliberately giving him these few minutes to put himself back together, and he’s grateful for it. But he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to calm down when he’s sitting in Hopper’s house waiting for the interrogation to pick up any second.

 _You’re the one that drove here,_ he reminds himself, even though it hadn’t exactly been a conscious decision on his part.

Hopper returns after a couple minutes, wiping his hands dry on his jeans, and settles in the armchair. He’s looking straight ahead instead of at Steve, but Steve still feels like he’s being watched, somehow. Eventually he says, “You wanna tell me what happened there?”

Steve just shrugs. He knows it’s not an answer Hopper will be satisfied with, but it’s an honest one. He doesn’t know what happened. He doesn’t know why he’s like this, why he’s turned so weak and pathetic that he can’t help but run to the chief of police when he has a bad dream.

Hopper doesn’t press him right away, though. Instead he just sits there in silence for what feels like a very long time before asking quietly, “This happen a lot?”

Steve shrugs again. “No. I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t…” He takes another sip of water, trying to drown the stubborn lump in his throat. He wishes his head would stop pounding. He wishes he wasn’t so fucking _tired._ Maybe then he’d be able to think straight.

Steve can see out of the corner of his eye that Hopper’s turned to face him fully, but he keeps staring ahead at the blank TV. He can see a dark, fuzzy version of his own reflection looking back at him. He feels cold, suddenly. Now that it occurs to him, he thinks he’s probably felt cold for a very long time. He shudders. His reflection does the same.

Hopper sighs. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on, buddy.”

His stomach twists at the word. Dustin’s the only one who calls him that, and he usually says it in a condescending, sarcastic sort of way that makes Steve swat his hat off his head and call him _shithead._ But the way Hopper says it, it sounds natural. Parental, almost. Like the sort of thing Steve might hear from his own dad, if his dad ever said things like that.

But his dad doesn’t say things like that. His dad just says things like _what, you’re scared of your fucking pillow now?_ and _what the hell are you crying about?_ and _don’t bother coming back till you’ve stopped acting like a little fairy—_

“Shit. Breathe, kid.”

Is he not breathing? He supposes that must be why he’s gotten so lightheaded again. He clenches his empty fist so hard that his nails dig painfully into his sweaty palms and tries to draw in a ragged gulp of air.When he blows it back out, it sounds humiliatingly close to a whimper.

“Here.” Hopper leans forward in his chair, reaching out towards Steve, and Steve is about to flinch away when he realizes that Hopper’s just trying to take the water glass from him before it spills. He hands it over and watches silently as Hopper sets it on the table. “Look,” says Hopper. He doesn’t sit back again, instead continuing to lean forward with his elbows braced on his knees as he scrutinizes Steve. “No judgment here, alright? Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Steve chokes out. He realizes as soon as it’s left his mouth how childish he sounds, and the embarrassment makes his eyes burn with renewed tears. He blinks them desperately away.

Hopper laughs dryly. “My daughter still has nightmares about the lab she grew up in and breaks things with her mind when she’s angry. I understand more than you think.”

Steve knows that Hopper’s trying to make him feel better by referencing El, that he’s trying to make him more comfortable opening up. Instead, though, his words just make a sour pit of guilt and shame start to grow in Steve’s stomach. _He_ didn’t grow up in a lab. He wasn’t stolen from his parents, wasn’t forced to kill anybody, didn’t have to single-handedly close a portal to another dimension. That was all El. But El is still okay most of the time. She still manages to be a functioning fucking human being, while Steve is _here._ He’s a full four years older than her and dealing with only a fraction of the trauma and yet he’s the one falling apart on Hopper’s couch.

Hopper’s voice when he speaks again is as soft as Steve’s ever heard it. “Please just talk to me, Steve.”

And it’s at that—at Hopper’s gentle words, so unlike anything Steve has ever heard from his own father—that he finally breaks down. The tears spill from his eyes and he does not bother trying to wipe them away. “I get nightmares,” he whispers miserably. “Every night. And usually I can deal with it, but—” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. “I was—I was really tired today, and I felt kind of sick, I guess, and I fell asleep after basketball practice, and I—it’s not so bad usually, but I—I guess I was screaming, and my parents heard, and my dad, he—”

God, it sounds so _stupid_ when he says it out loud. And what’s even more stupid is the way that just talking about it makes the panic well up in him all over again. _What the hell are you crying about? What’s turned you into such a pussy, huh?_ It’s pathetic. It’s absolutely pathetic, and he can’t bear to meet Hopper’s eyes.

“What did your dad do?”

“He didn’t even _do_ anything. He just—Jesus, it’s so stupid.”  
  
“It’s not stupid,” says Hopper quietly, patiently.

Steve takes a few more deep breaths before he can trust his throat to produce any sound other than a whimper. “He told me to get out. And that I shouldn’t come back. Not until I…man up, or whatever. He didn’t kick me out,” he hurries to clarify when Hopper is silent. “I mean, not—not permanently, or officially or whatever, just…”

It’s a long few seconds before Hopper answers. When he does, his tone surprises Steve. He’s turned almost brisk, commanding and authoritative. “Alright, kid,” he says. “You’re staying here tonight.”

Steve wants to protest. But he doesn’t know where else he’d go if he doesn’t go home, and home isn’t an option. His breathing is still shaky and there are still tears on his face and his head is screaming and he’s pretty sure he might pass out if he stands up. So he just says, quietly, “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Here.”

Steve takes the blanket Hopper’s holding out to him without comment. It’s early still, not even nine, but he’s already having a hard time keeping his eyes open. For just a moment he feels a flash of comfortable, soothing drowsiness. It’s as if he’s a little kid again, his mother draping a throw blanket over him as he falls asleep on the couch. The feeling disappears quickly when Hopper comes back into his line of sight, sitting down on the coffee table facing him.

“Listen, you look exhausted, so I’m gonna turn in early and let you get some sleep,” he says.

There’s nothing in the world that sounds better to Steve, but the thought of kicking Hopper out of his own living room makes his stomach squirm with guilt. “You don’t need to—”

“Don’t argue with me.”

It’s a little unnerving, Steve thinks, how quickly and easily Hopper is able to switch between his parent voice and his police chief voice. He opens his mouth again, but whatever protest he might have made dies in his throat as Hopper continues to look at him with what is almost a glare.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he continues, gesturing at the blanket and the pillow taken from El’s room. “I’ll just be in my room if you need anything.”

Steve nods mutely. ****

“Good.” Hopper pats Steve’s knee and then stands, his joints popping loudly. He turns off the light and then crosses to the extra bedroom which, last time Steve visited the cabin, had still been under construction. There’s a curtain instead of a door, and Hopper pauses just in front of it before going inside. “Hey, kid?”

Steve turns to look at him, trying to ignore how the action makes his head spin. “Yeah?”

“You might wanna take your shoes off. And, you know. Lay down or something.”

He feels himself flush. Hopper’s right, of course. He’s not exactly going to get any rest sitting rigidly on the couch like this. But even after hyperventilating and crying, it still feels embarrassingly vulnerable to take his shoes off and lie down in front of Hopper. He hasn’t quite surrendered all of his pride, yet.

“Right,” he says. “I will.”

“You’d better.”

Hopper disappears through the doorway and, after a moment, turns a lamp on in the bedroom. The light shines dimly around the edges of the curtain. For a few minutes Steve remains perfectly still, listening to Hopper moving around in there. It feels strangely intimate, almost invasive, sitting in the dark out in the living room while Hopper gets himself ready for bed. But at the same time, Steve has never felt so isolated.

He tilts his head back against the couch cushions and lets out a long sigh. He’d almost forgotten his headache in his embarrassment over Hopper’s insistence that he stay the night, but he’s certainly aware of it now: a persistent throbbing that pulses more painfully with each heartbeat. Even his eyeballs are aching, and tendrils of pain are shooting down his neck and into his shoulders and back. It might be a migraine, he thinks, but he isn’t sure. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a migraine before. He’s not certain of whether a migraine would explain the vague uneasiness that’s still sitting in his stomach, or the way he feels both hot and cold all over.

Right. His shoes.

For about two seconds he tries to bend over to untie them, but it feels like a lot of effort. He gives up and just kicks them off instead. It’s nine-thirty, he realizes, catching sight of the clock. He’s been sitting here at least twenty minutes since Hopper left. He doesn’t remember that much time passing. Maybe he dozed off, but if he did, he certainly doesn’t feel any better rested for it.

He pulls his legs up onto the couch and tips his aching body over to lean against the pillow. Dimly, he wonders when everything started to hurt so much. Despite his exhaustion, he doesn’t really expect to fall asleep.

He does anyway, within seconds. ****

—

Dustin is screaming.

The sound feels as if its coming from inside Steve’s own head, even though he can’t see the kid. All he can see is swirling white flakes, like snow if snow smelled like sewage. It’s so thick that he can feel it clogging his eyes, his nose, his lungs— _“Dustin!”_ he yells.

“Steve!”

Dustin is pressed against his side, Steve realizes, though his voice is far away now, almost drowned out by the stampede rushing towards them. And the lights are flickering, colorful lights all around them, and he can smell gasoline, and fuck, if he doesn’t act _right now_ then Nancy and Jonathan are going to _die,_ and the kids will have to watch it happen—

Steve jolts upright with a gasp. It’s a long few moments before he remembers where he is—the strange-smelling sofa, the dark shadows of unfamiliar furniture floating around him—Hopper’s cabin. Hopper’s cabin, not the tunnels, not Jonathan’s house.

He’s shaking, and his entire body hurts, and his head is in so much pain that he feels like he might be sick. He’s freezing, he realizes; his very bones are penetrated with cold. And yet he’s damp all over. He isn’t sure why he’s so damp.

He’s horribly claustrophobic, suddenly, and he throws the blanket off despite the cold. He swings his legs over the edge of the couch to plant his feet firmly on the floor. One of his feet brushes against something and a tiny, terrified noise escapes his throat—a horrible, wheezing sort of whimper—before he realizes that it’s just his own shoe.

 _Calm down, calm down, calm the fuck down._ But he’s pretty sure it isn’t just panic from the lingering nightmare that’s making him feel so lightheaded and weak, that’s causing his stomach to churn unpleasantly with every shiver. He hadn’t wanted to admit it before, even to himself, but there’s no denying it now. He’s sick—truly sick, a feverish, stay-home-from-school kind of sick that he hasn’t been in years.

He hunches over, clutching his head in his hands as a wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm him.

There’s a swishing noise as a curtain is pulled open, but Steve doesn’t really process what it means until a hand on his shoulder startles him into looking up.

“Steve?” Hopper is frowning down at him. “You okay?”

What a stupid question, Steve thinks. He puts his head back into his hands and doesn’t answer.

“Shit, kid.” The hand leaves his shoulder and Steve hears a light creaking as Hopper sits down on the coffee table. “What’s going on?”

Hopper doesn’t add _this time,_ but Steve hears it loud and clear. _What’s going on this time? Why are you falling apart again? When did you turn so pathetic?_

“Did you have another nightmare?”

His voice is gentle and patient, and the most annoying thing about is that Steve _did_ have another nightmare. He wishes more than anything that he could snap at Hopper _no, I’m fine_ and have it be the truth. But he’s far too exhausted to lie, and Hopper is far too smart to believe him, and besides, Hopper’s already seen plenty of evidence tonight to prove how weak Steve is. “Yeah,” he mutters, and with the admission he feels his last scrap of dignity vanish.

The table creaks again as Hopper shifts his weight. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“It might help."

Steve makes a sound that was intended to be a laugh but leaves his throat sounding more like a sob. He can smell the gasoline, still. He can smell the gasoline and he can feel Dustin clinging to him, can hear the kids just above him screaming, can feel the thick, ashy air on his tongue—“I’m gonna be sick,” he mutters.

“Shit.” Hopper jumps up. “Here—”

But Steve’s already looked up and spotted the bathroom. He feels himself sway a bit upon standing, but he manages to cross the room. He slams the bathroom door shut behind him before dropping to his knees in front of the toilet.

There isn’t even anything in his stomach. He woke up too late for breakfast this morning and felt too sick at lunch and slept through last night’s dinner. Maybe, he thinks as he gags and brings up bile, that’s why this is so fucking painful.

The room is spinning by the time he’s finished. He slumps forward, too exhausted to do anything but rest his forehead on the seat. The sharp cold feels good against his skin. He’s pretty sure he was freezing a minute ago, but now there’s sweat dripping down his neck, making his t-shirt stick to his back. He’s never going to move again, he thinks, not if he can help it.

He hasn’t flushed the toilet yet, he realizes suddenly, but before he can do anything about it there’s a knock on the door.

“Hey, uh, you okay in there?”

Steve forces his head up and fumbles for the lever. “Fine,” he says. He’s not certain it’s loud enough for Hopper to hear.

His mouth tastes disgusting. The bitter, acrid taste of bile still coats his tongue and throat and burns all the way down his chest. He pulls himself up off the floor.

Hopper is waiting on the sofa, a glass of water in his hand. He stands up quickly when Steve opens the bathroom door and makes a jerky movement as if to go to him, but then—Steve would be amused if he didn’t feel so awful—stops himself, as if thinking better of it. Steve is grateful that Hopper’s not embarrassing him further by helping him across the small room. Still, he thinks as a wave of dizziness overwhelms him, forcing him to stop and squeeze his eyes shut for a moment before continuing—still, if he’s honest, he could probably use the assistance.

“Here.” Hopper sits back down once Steve has finally— _finally—_ dropped onto the cushions. He hands over the glass of water. Steve takes it in shaky hands and forces himself to take a few sips even though he’s pretty sure that anything he drinks right now will make a reappearance soon enough.

Hopper’s watching him intently, though Steve pretends not to notice, keeping his gaze fixed on the glass in his hands. The water hasn’t really helped the horrible taste in his mouth, and it definitely hasn’t fixed how chilled how feels, how shivery and sweaty all at once, how he feels like there’s a brick pressing down on the back of his neck. There’s a small part of him—a _tiny_ part—that wishes he could just slide over a few inches and lean into Hopper’s shoulder. The chief is strong, and warm, and for all his gruffness Steve knows how gentle he can be when necessary. He tries to push down the thought. He’s pathetic, but he’s not quite _that_ pathetic.

Hopper is still looking at him. Steve can see the concerned expression out of the corner of his eye, even in the dimness of the living room lit only by the lamp in Hopper’s bedroom. They both are silent for awhile. Finally Hopper says, “You look like shit, kid.”

It startles a dry laugh out of Steve. “Jeez, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Another long pause. “I shoulda given you something earlier when you said you’d felt bad all day. I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“How long you been sick?”

“Just since yesterday.” Or earlier today, he supposes; he has no idea how long he’d been asleep or what time it is now. He doesn’t tell Hopper that it had taken him all day to realize something might actually be wrong. He spends so much time feeling like shit these days, what with the sleepless nights and unpredictable jolts of panic, that being properly sick doesn’t actually feel much different.

“Your parents know?”

He can tell what Hopper’s really asking: _did your parents actually kick you out of the house while you had a fever?_ He shrugs.

Then he hunches over as another wave of nausea hits him without warning.

“Do you need—?”

“No,” he mumbles into his hands. He’s bent over so far that his forehead is practically touching his knees. _Fuck,_ it hurts—his stomach, his head, his back, everything. He feels a lot like he did after Billy beat the shit out of him, except now on top of everything else he’s chilled and sweaty with fever and the residual panic from his nightmare, from his dad’s yelling, from _everything_ is still bubbling through him.

He hears Hopper sigh, and then there’s the warm weight of a hand on his back. Even through his damp t-shirt, it feels incredible against his icy skin. He can’t remember the last time he was touched like this, in a way so comforting and soothing and _parental._ For months, ever since Nancy, there’s been only the occasional hand on his shoulder or brief, embarrassed side-hug from Dustin. And for years before that, before Nancy, before any of this—for years, there was nothing.

He surprises even himself when he begins to cry.

It’s different from the tears he shed earlier—those were furtive, almost silent, and he’d hastily scrubbed at his cheeks every few seconds as if to hide the evidence. Now the sobs come loudly, wildly, barely muffled by the hands still pressed to his face. _What’s turned you into such a pussy, huh?_ But he doesn’t care. He can’t bring himself to care, because everything hurts except for the spot on his back where Hopper’s hand is now moving in slow circles, and he’s so fucking tired, and so, so lonely. He’s convinced, suddenly, that if Hopper were to remove his hand, he’d just disappear entirely, as if he’d never existed in the first place.

There’s a rough hand brushing against his forehead, the only part of his face that his own hands have left exposed. The hand smooths upwards, running through his hair, and then it’s gone. “Aw, buddy,” Hopper sighs. “You’re burning up.”

The words make Steve cry harder, with something that feels like relief and anguish all at once.

Then Steve feels Hopper shift slightly beside him, and feels a gentle pressure against his own shoulder, against the back of his head, guiding him to lean to the side. “C’mere,” Hopper murmurs, and Steve finds himself suddenly with his head resting against Hopper’s shoulder and Hopper’s arms wrapped around him. Almost unconsciously, Steve reaches up to grip Hopper’s forearm, as if to stop him pulling away.

“I’ve got you,” Hopper says quietly as Steve continues to cry. “I’ve got you.”


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes, Steve is alone. He’s lying down again, his head on a pillow and his legs covered with a blanket. The room is bright with soft natural light.

He sits up slowly, suppressing a groan when his head and his entire body ache in protest; rubs a hand over his face; squints at his surroundings. The cabin looks entirely different now that it’s morning, which he finds both disorienting and inexplicably comforting. He yawns.

“Hey, kid.”

He cranes his neck over the back of the couch to see Hopper approaching from the kitchen, dressed in a regular flannel and jeans instead of his uniform and holding a dishtowel.

“How’re you feeling?”

Steve doesn’t remember _suddenly,_ exactly, since he hadn’t really forgotten, but seeing Hopper brings his hazy memories from last night into sharper focus. Panicking and shaking and puking and crying and then, apparently, falling asleep in Hopper’s arms—“Fine,” he says, the word coming out as little more than a croak.

Hopper frowns, looking unconvinced. He steps around the couch to sit down on the coffee table facing Steve and, before Steve can protest or pull away, places the back of his hand against Steve’s forehead. His frown deepens. “I think you’ve got a bit of a fever, still.”

“Oh,” says Steve, unsure how else to respond. He feels better than he did last night—there’s no nausea at the moment, and there isn’t the horrible all-consuming panic intensifying his other symptoms, but he can definitely still tell that he’s sick. He still feels sore everywhere, and his head still hurts a bit, and there’s a bit of a vague floaty feeling that he supposes must be from the fever. Hopper is watching him carefully, intently, and the close attention makes him fidget with embarrassment.

There’s a long silence before Hopper opens his mouth as if to speak, then stops himself. “You feel up for eating anything?” he asks eventually, which Steve is pretty sure isn’t what he was originally going to say.

He’s actually hungry, he realizes with some surprise. He hasn’t felt hungry in days. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” 

“I’ll make you some toast.”

Hopper stands again and retreats back to the kitchen.

Steve lets his eyes fall shut again, listening to the sound of Hopper in the kitchen, opening and closing a cabinet, the low hum of the toaster once he’s put the bread in. The microwave running as he heats something up. Hopper’s heavy footfalls as he moves around in the small space, making breakfast for Steve.

It’s been a long time since anyone made him breakfast, even if it is just toast.

“Steve? You still awake?”

He cracks his eyes open. Hopper is standing in front of him again, a plate in one hand and a mug in the other, and Steve realizes that he must have dozed off for a minute. He pushes himself back upright from where he’d slumped against the back of the couch. “Yeah. Thanks,” he adds as Hopper hands him the plate and sets the mug on the coffee table.

“Chamomile,” says Hopper.

“What?”

He gestures at the mug. “The tea. It’s, uh, it’s chamomile. El likes it when she has—when she’s not feeling well.”

“Oh.”

Hopper is still watching him with that same unnerving intensity. Unsure what else to do, Steve takes a bite of toast. Hopper watches him for a moment and then nods, apparently satisfied, and returns to the kitchen.

He’d thought he was hungry—he _was_ hungry—but he only manages a few bites before his stomach begins to churn unpleasantly. He sets the plate gingerly back down on the coffee table and clenches his jaw, trying to will away the nausea that’s suddenly returned. The smell of the tea, which had before been mild, unoffensive and even pleasant, abruptly seems sickeningly strong.

“Hey, kid—” Whatever Hopper had been going to say, he cuts himself off when he returns to find Steve sitting rigidly, his jaw set and breathing deeply and deliberately through his nose. “Steve? You okay?”

He nods jerkily, not quite trusting himself to open his mouth without something other than words spilling out. God, he feels pathetic—he already completely fell apart in front of Hopper last night and now, just to add insult to injury, he can’t even take a bite of plain toast without wanting to puke.

Hopper clearly doesn’t believe him, because he vanishes again. Steve hears him rummaging around in a cabinet before he returns with a big bowl. He sets it down on the sofa next to Steve. “Just in case,” he says in response to the halfhearted glare that Steve’s trying to shoot him. In truth, it’s hard to muster much of a glare when Hopper is right, _again,_ and Steve’s pretty sure he’s going to end up needing the bowl any minute.

“So,” starts Hopper, settling into the armchair.

Steve interrupts him by pulling the bowl into his lap and vomiting.

At least it’s not as painful as it was last night, he thinks dimly as he heaves; with something actually in his stomach to begin with, it feels less like his body is trying to rip itself to shreds. Still, that doesn’t make it pleasant. And it’s even more humiliating this time around, which Steve hadn’t thought was possible. Last night, at least, he’d made it to the bathroom and had some privacy. This time Hopper is watching the whole thing, and after a moment, Steve feels the sofa dip beside him and Hopper’s hand on his back. “This is—” he manages to choke out between retches, but he isn’t able to finish the sentence before his stomach convulses again.

“Don’t try to talk, kid,” says Hopper. Steve feels some of his hair being pushed out of his face and held out of the way. “Just let it out.”

When it’s finally done, Steve barely has the energy to hold himself upright anymore. He’d felt a bit better upon waking this morning, but all that improvement seems to have been reversed now; he’s sweaty and shaking again, his head pounding and his stomach and back sore from the convulsions. “God, this is embarrassing,” he mutters, not lifting his head.

Hopper eases the bowl from his grasp and sets it on the coffee table. Steve tries not to think to hard about what’s in it now. He isn’t very successful. Jesus, on top of everything, Hopper’s going to be cleaning Steve’s puke out of a bucket now. Steve resolves not to let him. He’ll clean it himself. He will. Just as soon as he’s able to stand up again.

“I’ll get you some water,” says Hopper.

Steve tries to compose himself a bit during the few seconds Hopper is gone. There are tears on his face, he realizes—whether from pain or plain embarrassment, he isn’t sure—and he quickly swipes them away. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, which just a moment ago Hopper had been holding out of his face for him. _God, you're pathetic._ ****

He takes a couple sips of water once Hopper hands it to him, grateful at least that he’s returned to the armchair to give Steve some space. The bowl is gone, Steve realizes. He hopes Hopper’s just left it on the counter instead of washing it out already.

They both sit in silence for a few minutes. Steve isn’t sure whether it’s a relief or even more agonizing than conversation. He thinks, as the silence drags on, that he’s leaning towards the latter.

Finally he hears Hopper take a deep breath, and glances over at him before he begins speaking. “So,” he starts, and Steve remembers abruptly that Hopper had been about to say something before he ruined it by getting sick again. “I know you probably don’t want to, but we need to talk about this, Steve.”

There’s a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach. “Talk about what?”

 _“Steve._ ” Hopper sounds almost annoyed, though his tone softens again as he continues. “Look, I don’t wanna pry any more than I have to, here. But I also can’t ignore what you said about your dad last night.”

Last night’s a bit of a blur, but Steve doesn’t think he actually said very much. All the information Hopper needed probably came from the fact that Steve had fled from home after a nightmare; from the way Steve had then curled into him, crying, and fallen asleep in his arms. The memory makes him want to shrivel up and die from embarrassment. “I didn’t really say anything.”

“You said enough. Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to ask this—your dad, does he—has he ever hurt you?”

Steve knows what Hopper’s asking, and the answer is no. His dad’s never beaten him, never punched him or slapped him or taken a belt to his back. His dad pushes him around a bit, sure, but not more than is normal. Never hard enough to really hurt him. Not on purpose, anyway. ****

“No,” he tells Hopper.

“Okay.” Hopper lets out a long sigh, like he’d been holding in a breath. “Okay. That’s good.” A long pause. “And does he do…this? Often? Kick you out of the house?”

“Temporarily,” Steve reminds him.

“Okay,” says Hopper, “does he _temporarily_ kick you out of the house often?”

 _No,_ Steve wants to say. He almost does say it. But the word sticks in his throat. It _doesn’t_ happen often. His dad has to actually be _around_ to kick him out of the house, and that happens less and less these days. When was the last time his parents were home for more than a few weeks? When was the last time either of them attended one of his games? Has he even had a full conversation with either them during the past year? He’s pretty sure he hasn’t.

“Steve,” Hopper prompts, and Steve realizes he’s just been sitting there without answering for far too long.

“Oh. Uh, no. Not often.”

He hopes that’s the end of this conversation. Hopper’s quiet for long enough that he thinks it might be. Then, after the silence has dragged on just past what feels like a normal pause, Hopper speaks again. His voice is soft. “You don’t have to stay there, Steve.” ****

Steve scoffs. “Right. I’ll just run away with the car that my parents pay for and rent an apartment with all the _personal savings_ I have.”

“That’s not what I meant,” says Hopper. He seems to hesitate a moment, then says, “You’re always welcome here, you know.”

Steve just looks at him, startled. That has to be a joke. _Obviously_ it’s a joke. Hopper lives in a two-room cabin with a telekinetic teenager who has enough issues of her own to keep several parents occupied full-time. “Great. I’ll move right in and live on your couch forever.”

“I’m serious,” Hopper tells him. “Look, I know there’s not a lot of space here. But you can come here anytime you need to be out of your parents’ house. And if that means all the time, well…we’d work something out, okay?”

Steve stares at him. He feels as if his brain is working very frantically, and yet producing zero thoughts. _Live with Hopper?_ That doesn’t make any sense. That’s a hilarious punchline. That’s—and yet, against his will, he feels his heart leap with something dangerously close to hope. “I—”

“Just think about it, okay?” Hopper stands abruptly and pats Steve’s knee. “I need to go pick up El. You gonna be okay here?”

“I—yeah.”

“Good. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

And then he’s gone.

Steve stares into his reflection in the dark TV screen. _Live with Hopper_. He shivers suddenly, a jarring remind that he’s still mundanely sick. His entire life may have just been changed, but he’s still got a fever and a headache and despite the way his brain is now running a mile a minute, he suddenly wants nothing more than to lie down.

He groans slightly as pulls his legs up onto the sofa, falling sideways onto the cushions and fumbling for the blanket that he’d thrown off at some point. _Live with Hopper. Think about it._ He will think about it. There’s a lot to consider.

But it definitely sounds nice.

— ****

He drifts back into half-wakefulness when he hears the front door open and two people enter. There’s the sound of shoes being removed, coats being hung up, and then El’s voice, soft and sparse but steady as it always is. “Sleeping?”

He hears heavy footsteps crossing the room and then a pause during which he imagines that Hopper is leaning to see him over the back of the couch. “Yeah, he’s resting. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” ****

“He’ll get better?”

“Yeah, of course.” Hopper’s voice is a little farther away now. Steve thinks he’s gone into the kitchen. “It’s just the flu or something. He’ll be fine.”

Steve hears the freezer door open, and the rustling of something being pulled out, then a bang as it’s quickly slammed shut.

“Uh-uh. Absolutely not. Go get dressed and brush your teeth and put your stuff away and _then_ we can talk about Eggos.”

“But—”

“El.”

He hears her huff and Hopper huffs back, mockingly, which makes her giggle. “Fine.” A rustling as she picks up her bag and then her footsteps are moving through the living room. She pauses just behind the couch. “Feel better, Steve,” she whispers.

He feels himself smile before drifting back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! you can find me on tumblr @ diogxnes


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